Blackness pours from the gunwhales and portholes,
Surrounding the voyager.
Ropes of ghostly moonlight coil spiralling to the watery landscape beneath.
As a seabed, the coniferous forest floor emerges from the darkest depths.
Wreckage: bowline branches which floated above the surface,
Lay twisted, bent, broken.
Bleached by the phases of the moon, the bones contort,
Loom large in the gloom.
They will never be mainmasts, lost like empty binnacles.